


ru5t

by fishcola



Series: (1)nterl(0)ck(ed) [3]
Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game), Cyberpunk Red, Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Addiction, Amnesia, Asexual Character, Detox, Drama, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Medical Procedures, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Psychological Trauma, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Character, Transactional Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, also still the eye dialect, shifting pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: rustverb/ɹʌst/to oxidise, especially of iron or steel, under chemical attack of oxygen and moisture.(figurative)to degenerate from inaction, lack of use, or passage of time.
Relationships: Vang0 Bang0 & Dapper Dasha, Vang0 Bang0/Burger Chainz
Series: (1)nterl(0)ck(ed) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514867
Comments: 59
Kudos: 80





	1. part 01: r3dox

**Author's Note:**

> please note the tags! consent issues and power imbalance throughout. trans character.
> 
> at least a coupla the scenes relate to / rely on the previous works, so you might wanna start dere, yeah?

01110110 01100010 00100000 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101

Keanu’s nothin’ fancy. Just an old hippie van with a coupla mods. Burger did it himself, stripped out the back seats, left the floor mostly open for haulin’ and for sleepin’. Along the sides’re shelves and racks in cheap unfinished plywood, holding tools, gadgets, a hotplate, ammo, flashlight, generator, stuff like that. 

He didn’t do the voice mod, naw, that kinda wiring-work’s too fiddly for his fingers. Had a friend who owed him a favor come in, scratch the serial off an after-market AI-chip and get the software going. Kee’s a bit goofy-sounding, and the maps are outta date—the dang SQL district hasn’t been navigable since Oracle swept up the streets—but the autopilot handles itself okay. Burger’s gotten used to the quirks. 

He could probably score a few big jobs and upgrade to a slicker ride, but he won’t. Better ta sock it away for a rainy day, just focus on fixin’ up the busted lights and maybe up the glass to handle gen-3 bullets. Ya never know when you’re gonna thank yourself for pinching pennies. 

Plus, he’s kinda attached to the old thing. He’s sentimental like that. Stray cats, old cars, half-stupid shoe-shine bots, anything with a lick of personality and Burger tends to go a little soft, get keen on the idea of fixing it up and givin’ it a home. Kee’s maybe his longest-running project, and being in the driver’s seat feels like home. 

So he doesn’t blame himself too much— 

he overreacted, sure, like a damn fool, but— 

when he walked out of the Vim annex, his pocket light on credits but grinning about 2^8 more days’ parole— 

in such a good mood he was whistlin’ a little tune, wonderin’ if Vang0 might be up for some real food today— 

kid hadn’t been able to keep down more’n kibble for over a week now, though he hadn’t been complaining; just spending his time rattlin’ around in the back, zeroed in tight on his little screen—

finally his stomach’s settled down and he’s stopped seizin’ up half the night— 

god, Burger’s such a durn bonehead, he was actually starting to _ like _it, the hum of company in the back, the constant onslaught of video-notes, bone-dry quips about Burger’s driving, dreamy speculations about an unremembered past, trip reports for some new pill he boosted out of a neighboring car when Burger took too long on a job— 

well, all right then. In retrospect, he really shoulda predicted this, with how good the kid was at break-ins. 

Anyway. 

He overreacted, sure thing, when he walked outta Vim’s and into the lot and the kid—and Keanu—were gone. 

01101110 01100101 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

_ “What the—why’s—what tha hell were ya doin’ in here, Vang0?” _

_ “Nothing. I don’t remember. Looking for drugs.” _

_ “Well ya didn’t have to rip up all of hell’s creation! I don’t keep drugs in my toolbox, Vang—” _

_ “I know that now. Can I come with you tomorrow?” _

_ “I don’t know if—Vang0, why’d you—oh gosh, don’t climb all—hang on, I’m tryin’ ta—” _

_ “I’m sorry I made a mess. I’ll make it up to you. Can I come with you tomorrow?” _

_ “Now hold on a gosh-durned second. If you were lookin’ for drugs, why’d ya load this, then?” _

_ “I thought I might have to go out and get some.” _

_ “You thought—you would’ve just—” _

_ “I was going to bring it back.” _

_ “Vang0! Ya can’t go out half-naked in this neighborhood with just a pistol!” _

_ “Okay.” _

_ “Lord. I’m startin’ ta think twice about leavin’ ya here alone—” _

_ “Yeah, no shit, Burger. That was really fucking stupid. How have you not been robbed blind yet? _

_ “Hmm, folk tend to know better, kid. I gotta reputati—for the love of pete, not this MINUTE ya little horndog—” _

_ “Can I come with you tomorrow? I’ll be quiet. I’ll stay in the van.” _

_ “Look, Vang0, you’re better off somewhere you can rest—” _

_ “If I get dopesick here I’ll fuck your stuff up again.” _

_ “...all right, all right. You can ride along, then.” _

_ “Thanks. Want a handjob before bed?” _

_ “Jeez, Vang, I’d rather ya tidied up the place, to be honest. It’s a real pigsty in here.” _

_ “I’m too tired. Can I just jerk you off and get out of cleaning.” _

_ “Well…” _

_ “Please? I’m so tired. Just this once.” _

_ “...I s’pose that’s fair. All right, then.” _

01101001 01101110 01100110 01101111

Burger has to hightail it outta the lot pretty fast, with all the blaring alarms and the anti-personnel defenses he kicked up. His knuckles are gonna be killing him tomorrow—his implants are lousy. They dent cars up pretty good but the darn things never scarred up quite right. Tend to bruise irregular ‘round their perimeter. 

Once Burger’s far enough away ta catch his breath, he wastes it all screaming at the sky. 

Shit. Hell. He never shoulda— 

well there’s a helluva lotta things he _ really _shouldnta done, and Vang0 himself told him so half the time, and he did them anyway. If he’s honest with himself...how could he not? Touching Vang0 was— 

god. His hot tight mouth, his clever little fingers, how smooth and strong and slight he was— 

hell. Why is he sorry that the kid is gone, he’s just been robbed fuckin’ blind, that shipment’s long gone, it’ll take months ta track down Keanu and most like he’ll be stripped of everything Burger’s put years into— 

why would his heart pang harder about— 

he’s only had Vang0 a few weeks, and the little devil's been sick for most of it, strung-out and half-bare in thin cotton tees and Dasha’s borrowed hotpants, glancing up with bloodshot eyes and wiping a trail of ugly spittle and somehow _ winking_, anyway. 

They’ve barely even fucked. Certainly not more’n’a coupla dozen times and come to think of it, that second time— 

he shoulda realized, that day. 

  
  


Burger was _ pissed_, actually. That day. Just back from a job gone south, with bloody knuckles and a fat lip and fuck all else to show for it. 

“Can I show you something I found, Burger?” Vang0 chirped. 

Burger wasn’t in the mood, so he shook his head. “No. Gotta get movin’, kid.” 

But Vang, in typical ornery fashion, climbed up and over and onto him anyway, nearly kneed the goddurn gear shift into reverse while he kicked up, straddled Burger’s hips with his slim legs. After this little production, he didn’t even fuckin’ _ say _anything, just grinned and tried to grind his hips down saucily. 

“Well. What is it, then.” Burger huffed in annoyance. 

(Annoyance didn’t stop him cupping that perfect ass in his fingers, though.) 

“I took something,” Vang0 whined. “And now I’m horny.” 

“Jerk off then,” Burger grunted, and lifted with two hands around his skinny waist— “This ain’t the fuckin’ time.”

It’d’ve been easy enough, to chuck him over into the passenger seat, but then— 

“Please, Burger,” he panted, and fuck if he didn’t sound _ desperate_. “Please, use me to get off? I’ll make it good.” 

Well. 

Burger stuck a hand in Vang0’s boxers—they were his own boxers of course, a thin pair that was commandeered without so much as a _ please Burger may I_—and palmed the front, to see. Vang had no dick on at the moment, just the bare port—and his cunt was dripping wet and it—it stirred in Burger something hungry. 

“I don’t even know if you can take my cock,” he muttered. They’d only—

once, before, and they’d stopped before it got too serious, ‘cause Vang was moaning and twitching and jerking too hard for Burger to stay in— 

nah it hadn’t worked, the first time they tried, and Vang0 had whimpered and offered a blowjob but what he actually needed was to crawl on up into Burger’s arms and get rocked to sleep, teary and feverish, strange hiccups shaking him from his core, tight-limbed and useless for anything but muttered soothing. 

  
  
  


Anyway. So that first time hadn’t gone well, but this time— 

this time, Vang0 shivered and pressed his mouth to Burger’s face, not even a kiss, just open-mouthed contact and wet breath. “Fuck me,” he mouthed into Burger’s skin, and rolled his hips, a plea and a demand.

“You’re so tight,” Burger tried, ‘cause he really shouldn’t— 

“Your fingers are big,” Vang0 dismissed the concern. “I could take twice as much cock as yours.” 

He— 

he didn’t _ know _that, though, how could the kid know that? Nah, Vang0 was all talk, brave, hungry, reckless. Burger couldn’t, shouldn’t take him at his word. But if—

well. Burger knew the score. What Vang0 wanted, he’d get. Sooner or later. 

“How do you want it,” he gruffed out. 

In return, Vang0 swung a leg up, impossibly agile, to Burger’s shoulder. The bare toes brushed his jaw on the way, almost a kick, but it's hard ta hurt metal. 

“I’m flexible,” he deadpanned. 

Burger growled and gripped, and decided, _ fuck it_, _ if he’s doin’ this, he’s doin’ it here and now. _

“Stay still,” he barked, and Vang0 shifted to cling tight, wriggled his hips up as Burger as got a finger under those thin grey boxers, pulled, rough and quick, ripped until they split right in two. 

“Well _ gosh_.” Vang0 sounded rather delighted— 

hard ta tell if he was teasin’—not that Burger cared overmuch—but as far as it goes, it sounded like he was happy. Like things were goin’ to plan. 

Burger bent his head to kiss up Vang0’s leg, hugged him close to enjoy the feeling of his shivers, the way his hands gripped the back of Burger’s shirt. 

“Please,” the kid whined, and threw his head back so hard it hit the steering wheel. 

“Lemme get a couple fingers in you first,” Burger mumbled, low, purposeful. “So ya don’t squeal like a stuck pig.” 

“You like me loud,” Vang0 declared, and though he’d hardly had any chance ta figure that out, well, he was right. 

  
  
  


So Burger fucked him like that, fed his cock up into Vang0’s hole and thrust so sharp the scrawny body smacked around, even hit the horn a coupla times. He was so tight and keened so prettily—whimpered, whined, sure, but took Burger’s cock beautifully in the end, took it so well that Burger could loop a hand under his armpits and grab his slim shoulders and slam him up and down like a doll. 

_ Fuck _he was good, perfect, open and wet and hot and yipped like a dog, dragged desperate fingertips through Burger’s hair and panted for more. 

_ Shiiit_, Burger could— 

_ hell _. He coulda gotten used to that. Vang0 sleepin’ in the back all day, waking up to spider his way into the front seat and let Burger use— 

get what he wants. He wonders what kinda mods Vang0 had for his ass. His dick/clit/joystick setup is top-of-the-line, pricey stuff, and gorgeous. He’d wanted to— 

he’d wondered it, at the time, dragged an interested fingertip against his asshole, shushing his loose-limbed moans, trying to probe. Just to see. 

“ ‘mnot lubed,” Vang0 murmured. “Gimme my wrist—I can key in the—or gimme another red one?”

“Nah,” Burger resisted the twitch of his dick, which was tryin' to get the idea moving. He just sucked a breath, pressed into the shock of platinum hair, patted at him. “I’m done. Let’s get ya cleaned up.” 

“Why clean me up when you’re just gonna mess me up later?” Vang0 sing-songed, almost a taunt. “Why not just go for it now? It’s 4-2-8-3, on my wrist if you wanna go there.” 

Burger chuckled. “Ya don’t think you can rile me up again so quick, do ya? I’ve got limits. 

“Fiiiiine,” Vang grinned, and ragdolled, and let himself be lifted. 

  
  
  
  


God, it _ did _things to Burger’s mind, leavin’ the kid in the van that day. He didn’t put any pants back on. Just a shirt and bare legs, and didn’t stand for bein’ cleaned up much, and spent all day wiling away his time with Burger’s cum dripping slowly out of both his pretty holes. 

“You can fuck me five times a day,” Vang0 breathed into his neck, after the next job was done and Burger was trying, valiantly, to resist the urge. “I’m good for it. Still tight. Promise. Think you can loosen me up?”

_ Fuck _, he was so horny and wicked-wild, and he squeezed several more rounds out of Burger that day, it was so fuckin’—

_ distracting, is what it was. _Completely distracting. From what he was up to. Elbow-deep in Keanu’s wiring when Burger threw the door open, some half-assed story about lookin’ for any good drugs and quick-witted as sin— 

smack-talking, climbing on Burger, a real brat, getting himself fucked— 

and hell, _ hell _, whatever he was doing to Keanu that day, Burger didn’t notice. 

01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110000 01101001 01101100 01101100 01110011

Burger’s been telling himself, all this time, he woulda done it all without askin’ for anything. Helped the kid out. Just outta common human decency. 

Bein' nice is a stupid reason to put yourself out. Dasha tells him that constantly. Vang0 told him that, too. The two of them were a pair on that, more comfortable with mercenary work than any moral stances.

But the kid got almost deliriously worked up, if Burger refused to take _ something_. And he was too goddurn smart. If Burger had resisted— 

well, he _ should’ve _resisted— 

it was smart to resist— 

he tried to resist— 

but whenever he did, Vang just goaded him into it. And then that wasn’t...that wasn’t right. Comin’ into the thing angry, forceful. Uncaring. 

Better ta just do the damn thing, with purpose, with intent. Just to—to be what you are. Burger's got a lotta faults, but he's never been afraida that. 

01101000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01101101 01100101 00100000 01110101 01110000

Burger calls Dasha for help finding Keanu. She’s gonna laugh at him, but she’s one of the best fixers in the city, and at least she’s met the little runt, so she knows what she’ll be dealin’ with. 

When Burger first brought him over, to get a proper shower and some clean clothes— 

well, hell, it started off so bad he was sure he’d never be welcome in her apartment again. Vang0 was handsy and clumsy-fast-moving, kept bickering and asking her for things—gettin’ his sticky fingers all over her gadgets and yanking books out of her shelves and flinging himself onto her couch to read them. 

She pulled something out of her purse and pointed it straight at him— 

laser sight right straight dead set at the center of his breastbone— 

_ “Do you have an excuse for his manners, Burger. Because I’m not a patient woman.” _

_ “Look ah— Dasha— sorry he’s a little— he’s lost his mind a bit, ya see? Take it— take it easy on the kid— I’ll grab him—” _

_ “It’s okay, Burger. It’s just a taser. Or I mean. It’s both but. She’s got it set to stun right now.” _

_ “Vang ya can’t kno—” _

_ “Just try me, you devil. I’ve killed a man for less than what you just did to my kitchen.” _

_ “Look, Dasha, please—” _

_ “She’s bluffing, Burger. She wouldn’t shoot me.” _

_ “Like hell I wouldn’t.” _

_ “I’m on your couch. It's white. If I bleed here that’s a nightmare.” _

_ “C’mon, Vang, let’s try ta avoid any bleedin’—” _

_ “You’re not a total idiot. But you’re wrong, jackie. I’ve got a new couch coming tomorrow.” _

_ “You’re lying.” _

_ “I most certainly am not.” _

_ “You are. This couch is brand new. There’s scuffs on your doorway from where it got delivered. I bet you super don’t want to empty a clip into it. _

_ “Ha! Burger...this little shit’s too smart for his own good.” _

_ “You’re tellin’ me. Now could ya please—” _

_ “He’s half-right. It’s new. But the deliverymen stained it, dropping it off, and the replacement comes tomorrow. So, not your lucky day, half-pint. _

_ “I—mmm. She could be—hmm. That might be true. ” _

_ “Put that back, you little punk, before I prove it.” _

_ “...I still think killing me on here would void your warranty. Don’t risk it.” _

_ “Funny way to beg for your life.” _

_ “For the LOVE OF PETE, you two! Vang, get off her damn furniture and put that shit back.” _

_ “Okay. Sorry.” _

01110101 00100000 01101110 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01101110 01100001 01101101 01100101

When he calls, Dasha laughs at him, and promises to put the word out to her network. To keep an eye out for Keanu, for Vang0, for the VR bits he was deliverin’, for the little red pills Vang likes, for anything promising or anything fishy. 

She also gives him something to think about. 

“Do you really think he stole your car, Burger? Or do you think that someone stole _him._” 

He hadn’t— 

Burger’s no genius, so he hadn’t thought about that. He’d known fast and hard in his gut that Vang0’d screwed him over, made off with Keanu, hotwired him faster’n a photon in a vacuum chamber, shot off to go seek his fortune elsewhere. 

There’s no reason not to. The shaking and the puking is over, for the most part, and Vang doesn’t seem much the sentimental type, no matter how many nights he pressed his face into Burger’s shoulder and writhed and moaned _ thank you, thank you, god I’m so sorry, please, it hurts, please don’t let go. _

Poor little thing. Burger couldn’t resist. He held him tight and let the sweat-slick spasming limbs curl around his bare chest and brushed off the tears and accepted the fierce, feverish kisses. His skin was like fire and his mind was picked loose and bare, frayed like an old stripped wire jacked in too many times. He’d forget who he was, where he was, who Burger was— he’d drop off the edge into some weird blank-faced abyss— he’d mouth half-formed promises into Burger’s rough skin and break them just as quick and beg and beg for mercy. 

That was the worst of it. Quales didn’t help. They kept him docile, foggy-headed and easy-nodding with glazed unclever eyes— 

but they did nothing but delay it, the strange spasms that bowed his back sharp and set him screaming. 

_ “He’s doin’ it again, Tap, _ ” Burger whispered, fervent, into his agent. There’d been no point in whispering, Vang0 was long dead to the world, completely fucked on morphine and still lurching in unnatural sobs. But he was scareda Tap, didn’t like Burger ta call him. So he whispered. “ _ What the hell IS this? _” 

Tap wasn’t sure. Even after Burger got him a blood sample— 

and hell, that was _ quite _a production, lemme tell you. Even the slightest touch was makin’ Vang0 scream with pain. He had ta be tied down tight and the sounds he made were pitiful— 

and all of that, for nothing. Tap just said whatever it was, it’d either kill him or clear out in a few weeks. 

Which it did. It turned out all right. The spasms vanished, and then the shakes, and then the fevers, and finally Vang0 himself. 

Yeah, it turned out all right. Even if the damn kid’s gone forever. Hell, Burger'd do it again. That's how much of a damn fool he is. 

01110110 01100001 01101110 01100111 00110000 00100000 01100010 01100001 01101110 01100111 00110000

Burger gets a text from Vang0 the next day— 

> **help** **  
** **@32.6196901,-117.1351059,13.74z** **  
** **\\\/:b:**

—and he’s surprised, and he’s sorry, and he’s off like bat outta hell. 


	2. part 10: r3dbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains: one contextless use of a homophobic slur, extensive amnesia, trauma, unsafe drug use, side effects from drugs, semi-graphic injury, allusions to violence, general confusion.

`76 62 20 68 65 72 65 20 0a`

Things went about as well as could be expected, Vang0 Bang0 thinks, considering. 

Considering how stupid he was. Ran out on a tip from some low rent prepaid-web-card rando, followed the lead out to the floodlands, to a creepy old kibble-farm on rickety stilts over the refuse of old-timey suburban homes, then crept around in the dark like a rat until he found some strangers to sell him drugs. 

Look, okay, Vang0’s not a _total _idiot. It’s not like he went chasing ghosts out into the Badlands. Pacifica’s not a bad part of town, _per se_, just an empty one, wet and clammy and and dense with mold and fat globs of cyan-glowing seaweed and not a lot of other organic lifeforms. Good for k-packing plants and touristy haunted diving tours. Absolute pits if you’re looking for a good bite or a good screw or to keep your rad meter within normal levels. But a pretty plausible place to hand off some big money for some killer pills. 

Yeah, it went bad, and that’s kinda to be expected. 

Vang0 owes Keanu a solid, for sure. They almost feel bad for hacking him in the first place.

The solos _ did _have the drugs, at least. There was a...quibble, over price. Vang0 can’t remember how to bargain, but it’s dogshit simple? that you’re s’posed to start low and then work your way up? like, that’s normal? 

Why the fickety-fuck did those two get so _ snippy _about it. So what if the price was fixed already, everyone haggles, right? ‘cause like, shit, how’s Vang0 supposed to remember details like that, okay? 

“Do you think my neck is, like, my weak point?” he asks Keanu as he slams back into the car, starts the engine, letting its smooth rumble hide any waver in his normal flat drawl. 

_ FORSOOTH I BELIEVE THAT NECKS ARE A WEAK POINT FOR MOST HUMANS, MASTER BANG0. _

“I guess,” Vang0 mutters. He really needs to kick it in gear and beat ass out of here, but he can’t stop his twitchy fingers from flipping down the mirror. He looks fine, normal, though rosy-red fingerprints have been layered on anew to the fading green and brown. “But at this point it’s starting to seem like it might be a _ me _problem.” 

_ YOU DO VERILY HAVE A LONG NECK SIR. ABNORMALLY SO. _

Vang0 rolls their eyes, shifts Keanu into gear with a sharp twist. “Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s a critic.” A beat later, they add. “Thanks for the assist, though. With the lights.” 

_ MY PLEASURE, SIR. _

They jerk out of the lot, onto the street, which is too narrow for Vang0 to really take at the pace they want. “Would you really have run that guy down? Or were you bluffing.”  
  
_ BLUFFING, SIR. I CANNOT HARM A HUMAN UNLESS I AM SWERVING TO AVOID MORE VALUABLE HUMANS. _

“Mmm,” Vang0 taps the wheel. “I could fix that for you. Remind me to get up in your trolley protocols.” 

Keanu doesn’t respond to that, maybe because it doesn’t require a response, or maybe because he doesn’t want Vang0 fucking around with his insides anymore. Fair enough. They already had to gentle him as careful as landing a spooked drone, just to get him to let them drive. It’d be stupid to push their luck, right now. And Vang0 Bang0 isn’t stupid. 

  
  


They drive in pleasant silence for a few quick-turned roads, until Vang0 skids off a freeway entrance (too sharp, Keanu bitches about it) and finds a little garage somewhere to kick it. They’re good. No one’s following. They’re clear, and they can head right back, and Burger’ll never be the wiser. It took, like, stupid longer than expected, but they should still be good. Probably. Or Vang0’ll have to do a lot of apologizing. But either way. He can handle it. 

He takes the new reds out, turns them over in his fingers. A lotta trouble for a few little pills. They’re ruby-bright and oddly gorgeous, feel like they’re glowing with power. It’s probably just the UV lights in here. Even if these guys are the fix to Vang0’s ills, it’s not like they’re _ magic _or anything. It just means he’s found the right match, finally, for the particular swatch of crimson that’s stuck in his useless brain. 

There’s absolutely no way Vang0 should take them right _ now_. They’re probably duds, anyway. 

(Fuck shit he hopes they’re not duds, they cost enough, the five hundred credits_ each _ he promised those guys and a bloody nose besides). 

If they’re duds, he takes them now, nothing happens, no harm no foul. 

But if they’re _ the real deal _, he definitely shouldn’t take them now. 

Though they should make him feel better, should drag out from him some hint of wherever— 

nah nah, that’s dumb. No way to predict what they’ll do, what they really are. No, he should drive all the way back, get the van back where it belongs. He can take ‘em when he’s safe back at Burger’s. 

Vang0 drags his knees up, cracks his back. Driving this thing sucks. He nearly has to stand, to reach the pedals. His head’s killing him, and he’s sick to his stomach, and the world is overly purple but that might be the UV’s. It’s not magic. They’re probably duds. 

He takes two. Just to see. He’s got five, so two is reasonable—if it’s good, if they’re good, he can space the rest out, one like the day after tomorrow, half the next next day, so on so on. Get off this trash the healthy way, or get along long enough to figure something else out. 

They take two, and nothing happens right away. 

`74 68 78 20 66 6f 72 20 20 74 69 70 20 0a `

Motherfucking fiber-dick, those piece of shit ass biofucks, if this was a goddamn scam— 

_ fuck— _

—work, to organize this— 

probably a scam, or worse, these— 

—on him, sonofabitch. 

Vang0 sighs and drops his heels, drops the car into gear. Gets his fingers on the wheel, presses the ignition— 

_ FORSOOTH _

—shit balls worm ass goddamn booming car voice— 

_ THOU CANST NOT DRIVE WHILE INTOXICATED. _

“What the _ dick _. Fuck you I can’t.”

Their voice sounds distant but certain, and their hands know what to do, swipe around the floor, scrabble, for something to pull up the dash. 

Keanu-car ignores their cursing, but he doesn’t ignore when Vang0 finds a screwdriver in the glove compartment and starts trying to wedge it into the side of the steering column. 

_ GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF MY GEARS! _

“I _ knew _your two-byte ass could talk English.” 

_ VERILY, CEASE _

“Shut up car, I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

_ CEASE! _

“Look I just need to override your DWI mechanism, okay? Don’t be a narc.” 

_ OW! STOP OR ELSE I WILL ACTIVATE THE AIRBAG, RUFFIAN _

“I _ told _you, I’m running an errand for— 

—gonna be pissed if I’m not back—

—just let me—”

_ MASTER VANG0, HE WOULD NOT WANT YOU DRIVING IN THIS STATE _

“I’m fucking fine—jesus crisper—quit fucking _ sparking _so I can get the interlock off.” 

_ YOU ARE GOING TO ENDANGER— _

— 

_ SIR? _

“—not yours anyway, it’ll be a jiffy. Just let me—”

_ PERMIT ME TO CALL HIM _

“No…don’t I—c’mon, Keanu, just gimme a sec? Ten secs. I can do it.” 

_ I SHALL DIAL HIM FORTHWITH _

“Nope nope nope nope _ nope _manual override code eight three romeo nine—”

`68 65 20 66 6f 75 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 73 74 75 70 69 64 20 63 61 72 0a`

There’s a long suspended moment that is, surprisingly, not bodiless. Nothing like ‘running. The opposite. Feelings are _ more_, not less. Face warmth feeling, relaxed, and tingly. Pleasant. 

Fuzzy head-feeling, not unpleasant. Warm and flushed and drunk and happy and jelly-like and sleepy. Easy to push away the— 

urgent feeling, dropped the ball of back-and-forth conversation, shit— 

“F-fine. I’ll—I’ll text him. Then he’ll come get us. You’re gonna have to do the, the explaining, car.”

—questions, noisy booming ones, but they’re not important. Texting is easy. There just needs to be—it’s too dim— 

“I’m not _ going anywhere! _ I just need to _ see!_” 

—fat lot of good these damn fluorescents do with that—

—so bright red they make an _ angry _feeling and then pain, kicking a booted foot into the LEDs until they smash, sparks shattering into unsettled dim-dark— 

“_Stop _ that shit, you little cocksucker—who the _ bloody hell _are you?” 

Not Burger. Not Keanu. Someone else. 

“Fuck you! Vang0 Bang0— 

screams, and wriggles out of some strange-feeling grip, and runs like the devil. 

`6e 65 78 74 20 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 3a 0a`

They wake up— 

_ I’m Vang0 Bang0_— 

flat on his back.

The air’s clear. It stinks, but not like city air. Vang0 opens his eyes and— 

_ holy fucking black-and-bloody-bluescreen-of-death _there’s— 

gah. A huge ugly cow over him. 

...or it could be a horse? a llama? Look, Vang0 can’t remember if he did well in school. It’s really big. It has horns. It’s standing in the scraggly grass and dirt, lowing and staring at him with its big dumb wet wide eyes. It, uh, maybe just licked? Vang0’s head? 

Ew ew ew. Or maybe that’s just dewy wetness. It could be—it feels like morning. 

The cow-thing doesn’t look angry, but it’s _ right fucking on top of _ him and if it decides to poke him with the horny things or step on his chest with its big footless foot thing it’ll definitely crush him dead it looks really motherfucking _ heavy _. 

“I might be a vegetarian?” he whispers up at it. “So please don’t take it personally?” 

This thing does not seem capable of taking anything personally. It’s just chewing. It doesn’t activate any startled behavior patterns, when Vang0 dares to slide his body away, slowly, out from under it and over a few meters and far enough that he can stagger up and take stock. 

His shirt’s ripped up. His shoes are gone. He’s got cuts on his belly, his arms, but he doesn’t know from what, doesn’t remember if it was a fight? That’d be a weird kinda fight to get in, with your underarms and all up your chest. Probably not a fight. 

He’s _ exhausted _ . Feels like he ran and climbed and rolled around a bit; he’s caked with mud and probably cow shit and _ fuck _ shit fuck he’s outside the city. Far outside. It’s hazy-purple on the horizon but still, if he can’t see the ‘scrapers that means he’s miles and miles. Must’ve hitched a ride. Or something. No _ way _he walked this far alone. Goddamn. Where are his shoes? 

And his agent. _ Fuck. _And his necklace, too, kitschy black choker Dasha said she didn’t like anymore, gave to him. He’s more pissed about losing that than the line of rust-red blood stinging up his arm. Either someone tried to strip out his aug from wrist to elbow or he caught it on something and did it to his damn self. The exposed fibers hurt cold and ringing, sting like biting down on metal. But he can get that replaced, just for some credits. It’ll be good as new. 

His pills and his cash and his multi are still in his left shin. So that’s something. Not starting from scratch, at least. He knows he’s Vang0 Bang0. He knows he ate a burger the other day, so he definitely lied to that cow. He knows that somewhere in town there’s a guy named Burger Chainz who’s looking for him, and who’s stupid enough to forgive him for this probably, as long as Keanu’s safe and sound and maybe he’s allowed to beat the shit out of Vang0 first. 

_ That dumb car better be okay. _

The feeling of worry is alien where it clobbers him in the chest. Dread is impractical. Blocks out the useful stuff—that he left the door open, that he stumbled out and kicked him too hard—

_ Look it’s just a fucking shitty old car. _

It’s important, though. If Keanu’s fucked then Vang0’s _ double- _fucked. Burger loves that car more than anything. More than any affection he’s built up for blinky little blond sex freaks. If he’s lost—there ain’t gonna be no more apologizing after that. 

Vang0 doubles over. This emotion is hard to place on a five-dimension scale. High on anxiety, that’s for sure. Closer to guilt than he has any right to feel, like it crawled into him, infected him, bled over from someone who has a conscience. It’s weird, and Vang0 doesn’t like it. Side effect of the reds, maybe? 

Vang0 fingers the pills. _ You little bitches really don’t fuck around, do you. _

He resolves not to take any more until he’s somewhere safe. They felt good, and he hurts bad, but— 

_ no _ no no no no. Please don’t be stupid. Vang0. You’re not _ stupid. _

He sniffs, and the air is cold and stings and hurts and smells. Fuck, where the hell could he end up, if he takes two again and blanks out. 

Maybe he can take half of one? 

`67 65 74 20 62 61 63 6b 20 74 6f 20 6e 63 0a`

The first ride Vang0 Bang0 thumbs— 

well, actually, he doesn’t remember the first ride. Hopefully it got him closer to the city? And not further out? Probably. Probably was someone good-hearted, ‘cause Vang0’s a fucking mess, way too dirty to fuck, too strung out to talk pretty, doesn’t feel any achier than before. 

The second ride, though, is a dud. He picks it up at a gas station, one that’s way too podunk to have fresh gas or food or a shower, but they’ve got recycled petrol and low-grade kibble and a hose out back. The water burns a bit but all-in-all it’s not the worst Vang0’s ever— 

  
  
  


The first ride Vango Bang0 thumbs, once he’s clean enough to earn one, is two guys in a pickup the color of red clay. At first he figures they’re nice enough, ‘cause they don’t force him to ride in the back, make space for him in the crowded cabin instead. But Vang0’s not stupid, and he’s quick to realize he doesn’t trust them enough even to get him to a truck stop. They make him sit between them, and try to subtly feel him over in a way that makes his back curl. 

It’s not a sex thing. That’d be easy. Fuck, that’d be _ ideal. _Vang0 knows just exactly what to do with that and could probably get his ass all the way back to Night City. But no, the buck-toothed one pinches up his arms looking for wire, and the other one asks rude shit about his specs, and Vang0 figures if he stays in this car too long he’ll end up stripped for parts.

He rides a few miles longer and then pisses himself all over their upholstery and gets away pretty clean when they stop to scream at him. Couple cuffs to the head that send him reeling, but nothing that even slows him down. 

Vang0 dusts himself off, once he’s good and hidden, and pulls out what he managed to swipe. It’s one of those fancy multi-function agents—doesn’t fit on Vang0’s wrist, but hey—it’s got calls, vids, a streaming rig, ooh hell yeah that yokel had Tetris2000, _ nice _. 

He doesn’t know Burger’s number, of course. He doesn’t know _ anybody’s _number. But at least he can thumb past the guy’s contacts and pull up GPS— 

oh _ dick _ he’s way out of the city. Brutally far. How’d this fucking _ happen _ . His drug pickup was in fucking _ Pacifica. _ How the double-ended dildo did he get out where there are _ farms. _

Well, okay. Okay. At least he knows which way he’s going, and he’s got money, and he’s not like caked in blood, so there’s a chance he’ll get a ride. Vang0’s feeling pretty good about his chances. 

The agent rings. Vang0 lifts his wrist, taps it off. Last thing he needs is to talk to that asshole’s friends. 

It’s not until he’s tried to shut it off twice that he realizes it’s ringing _ outbound. _

`6c 69 6b 65 20 26 20 73 75 62 73 63 72 69 62 65 0a`

_ “T-tap?” _

_ “Yhello. Who’s this?” _

_ “Vang0 Bang0.” _

_ “...come again?” _

_ “The uh. The. The kid that Burger found.” _

_ “Ho shit, Burger’s guy?? Jeez, hey, where the fuck are you? He’s been out looking for you for like three days now! He thought you were still WAY down south.” _

_ “I don’t— I’m not. I’m not sure. Where I am. Where has...he been looking?” _

_ “Fuck. Okay. Uh, are you safe? Can you stay on the line?” _

_ “Uh.” _

_ “If you hang on like a hectosecond I can loque you. Okay?” _

_ “...okay.” _

_ “Once I do that I can send Burger to get you? Yeah?” _

_ “........” _

_ “Or is— he— are you two— why didn’t you call him? Did he hurt you?” _

_ “No.” _

_ “Are you— he’s not mad or nothing. He found Keanu right where you said.” _

_ “...where I said.” _

_ “Yeah! And he was hardly banged up, so no harm no foul. He just wants to know what happened to you, dude.” _

_ “...okay.” _

_ “Hey, dude, are you— you sound a little— why didn’t you call him?” _

_ “Uh. I just. Couldn’t remember his number.” _

_ “You sure?” _

_ “Yeah. Tell him to...hurry?” _

_ “Got it. Sit tight, dude, just stay where you’re at, please?? I’ll get him to you.” _

  
  


Vang0 Bang0’s hands are shaking, when he drops the call. How the, who did, how did he— 

he saves Tap’s number. How the fuck did he dial that. He must have dialed it. Must have, on reflex. Right? There’s no fucking other explanation. 

...could Tap be watching him? 

He barely even knows Tap. He’s dialed him maybe once before in his whole life. That he remembers. 

He doesn’t trust Tap, he knows that. But he can’t remember why. All he knows is that for some reason his body just dialed him for help, so— 

he _ did _call him for help, right? 

`6f 6e 65 20 28 31 29 20 62 65 65 7a 6f 73 62 75 63 6b 20 0a`

“Heyyyyy rockerbois and rowdycats, Vang0 Bang0 here, streamin’ out for friends and followers on JumpTrash Dot Net! Just picked up a streaming rig, lil after-market _ if you know what I’m sayin _g, so today’s H-I-Y thread is gonna be live! Send in your best hitchhiking hacks and your friend Vee-Bee will try ‘em out live on stream on my way back to the city!” 

It’s comforting, the little cluster of text-based strangers that watch Vang0 rate stale truck stop kibble and evaluate techniques for thumbing a ride. There’s not a _ ton _of viewers, but Vang0 thinks the names that pop up might be familar, if he could remember them. They talk to him like they know him. 

> `**glad you’re back online vb!!! love the stream you’re so funny lol ****  
****  
** **wow u rlly committed to the bit****  
** **aren’t u usually NC based?**`
> 
> ` **are you gonna stream more??? this is a++ content ** `

The words are nice and the suggestions aren’t totally useless. His followers point out a spot that looks like an abandoned farmhouse, but actually is a totally serviceable eatery that serves him up a plate of green plant stuff with white syrup that’s okay to eat.

He thinks they have rooms to stay in, there, and considers asking for one. But shit, he can’t just stream himself sleeping, and he doesn’t want to let go of his followers yet. Or of the careful VOD record of where the fuck he’s been. 

Also, some urge in him is telling him not to stay put. So that Burg— 

`74 6f 20 68 65 61 72 20 75 72 20 68 61 6e 64 6c 65 20 6f 6e 20 73 74 72 65 61 6d 0a`

Vang0 blinks back into awareness on his stomach, on concrete. He’s groaning. And freezing.

He checks the tape. 

Okay. He was at that house. The farmhouse. He finished food. He sat there chattering for too long. He sipped— 

ah _ shit _he took a red. He doesn’t remember doing it, but it’s on cam, clear as anything. Then he stumbled out into the road and started walking. 

He babbled about the stars, pointing them out, making up constellations. He did karaoke for his subs, warbled tunelessly up to the sky. He didn’t succeed in attracting any rides, ‘cause he looked fuckin’ disheveled and crazy, but nothing unfortunate happened either. 

The stream cuts off abrupt, in the middle of a sentence. Honestly, it’s likelier to be an internet fuckup than a decision. Vang0 scowls. Something else happened, between then and now, ‘cause it’s not night anymore and he’s not on a road. He’s on, fuck, who knows, maybe a roof and there’s something around his leg, and— 

_ oh fuck oh shit is that— _

“Burger!”

Vang0 _ yanks _ himself up but can’t fling himself far ‘cause there’s a goddamn bike lock around his ankle. But Burger is _ right there _, curled on the ground, like— 

okayokayokay. Not dead. Good good good great. Breathing is awesome. But not the fact that he’s— 

“BURGER! Burger. Hey, Burger. Chainz. Asshole. Dipshit. Wake up? WAKE UP. HEY. IT’S ME. VANG0 BANG0. YOUR FRIEND AND ASSOCIATE.”

The body doesn’t move at all, just snores. 

_ Fuck. _Maybe he’s high. Or drunk. How the fuck did either of them— 

he can get his hand into Burger’s. The big guy’s goddamn hard to pull, but Vang0 does it, even if the sound of his jaw grating against the ground is wretched and it takes like six tries and they all hurt. 

He doesn’t know why Burger’s sleeping. He doesn’t smell like booze. Vang0 pats him down for clues and checks his pulse three times, the old-fashioned way. Alive, alive, alive. 

He fumbles at Burger’s agent to figure out _ what the fuck is going on _ and finds out that his fuckbuddy-and-or-sworn-enemy is _ on a friggin’ call. _

  
  


“...Dasha?”

“Well hello, you little weirdo.” 

“It’s Vang0 Bang0.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I fucking _ know that._” It’s comforting, her snark. “Get yourself unlocked, you little moron, you’re gonna catch your death.” 

“How?” 

“In the freezing fuckign _ rain_.” 

“No. How do I...get unlocked?” 

“Oh. Use your brain, Vang0, I know you have one. You can handle that.”

This is unhelpful. Luckily, it’s a pretty cheesy bike lock, a quick hack, takes only a minute to power through 7! combinations and pop it free. 

“What do I do now?” he asks, prays the static-shitty wifi signal on this unknown roof is good enough that she can walk him through some solution to the passed-out-Burger problem, too. Even if it’s just yelling at him until he remembers what to do.

“Get Burger back into the van.” 

“He’s _ heavy,_” Vang0 whines, instantly, as if that’s the worst of his problems. 

“Well _ I _ didn’t knock him out, you dipshit, so that’s not _ my _fault. Get him in the van and let him sleep it off. He’ll be fine.” She pauses. Her annoyance is palpable. “And when you get in there, can you like. Lock yourself to him, please.” 

“Okay,” he nods, eager. “Where’s the van?” 

She directs him, like he’s a stupid child, and Vang0’s not stupid but he’s grateful for it. She repeats her instructions a couple times, as he struggles dragging Burger’s bulk down a pile of stairs, figures out how to lift him into the back of Keanu, curls around him in the back and locks their legs together. 

Dasha drives, which is a bit slow ‘cause she’s on remote, but he thanks her anyway because fuck, he just wants to get some sleep. 

“...you’re welcome,” she says, with some surprise, and then she says something else, probably something like _ ew do I have to watch you two, _ but Vang0’s snuggled up in Burger’s side and doesn’t hear the rest. 

`6c 69 6b 65 20 26 20 73 75 62 73 63 72 69 62 65 0a`


	3. part 11: r3dout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continued warning for violence, injury, amnesia, transactional relationships, and drugs.

``

* * *

``

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* * *

``

Vang0’s in a ball, on a roof, in the rain, when Burger gets to him. He’s limp and breathless and cuffed to the railing.

_Such _drama_._

Of course, the sad little sack of bones and bytes gets Burger right in his big stupid heart, sends him splashing forward, distraught and uncareful. He kicks mud all over the screen so Dasha’s view is obscured. Ugh. Typical. And Vang0's so fucking pitiful, just slumped there, helpless.

Dasha doesn’t buy it.

“Can ya get it off for me, Dasha?” Burger says, with that undesirable way he turns the vowel on its head. She used to think he was doing it on purpose. But now she knows he’s just stuck like that, talking like that. It must be intolerable. She’s recommended a voice chip, oh, a dozen times. But Chainz just laughs and says everybody knows his accent by now, dontchaknow.

“Well he can probably get it off faster than me, Burger." She's mindful to talk loud. She’s on speaker. Vang0 doesn’t startle, but he tenses. Hmm.

Dear god, he must be fucking freezing. The rain’s getting toward torrential, and he’s dressed in close to nothing. His pale hair’s plastered to his head with water and yet manages to still look like it needs a good washing. He’s got entirely too many scrapes of exposed skin and wire. Something’s fishy here, but it isn’t fake—he definitely got torn up.

Burger’s shifting the slim limbs around, moving him like he’s a doll, examining the lock around his ankle. It’s hard to see, but it looks red underneath. Like he’s been pulling at it. What the fuck. That doesn’t make any sense. You can buy a lock like that in any two-credit kiosk in any gas station in Night City. Vang0's smart enough to get that thing off in approximately ten seconds. Why _hasn't _he. 

“C’mon, Dasha,” Burger implores. “Help me, here. He’s whacked out.”

Well, that might be right. Too hard to see his pupils on the little agent screen, with the mud and the rain, _et cetera_. He’s sitting up, and stiff, and blank. He’s a liar, but he needs help, that’s no lie. Goddammit. If she has to talk Burger through this hack—

“Don’t you have a pair of bolt cutters, Burger? Or something like that. I hardly want to—” She stops, because Vang0 moves.

It’s not a big movement. Dasha is, frankly, lucky she even caught the pixelshift on the tiny screen. But you don’t get to be Night City’s second-best fixer without paying attention to your work.

So she sees it, the jittery-shaking hand rise and flex and glint.

“_Get away from him, Burger_!” she shouts. It takes a _lot_ to get Dasha to shout.

The idiot jumps; instinctive obedience moves him fast but not fast enough. Vang0 doesn’t get him in the neck at least, like he clearly means to. But neither does Burger really deflect it. No, it jabs him somewhere—

probably in the chest, because as Burger stands and stumbles back, his hands clutch at approximately his sternum.

“What in the goddurn name of heaven was—” he sputters, rumbles through the agent, and then a bunch of other garbled folksy things, and then—

judging by the way the sky goes spiraling—

he falls over.

_Fuck_. Chainz isn’t the brightest, but he’s...a very useful asset, is what he is. Toughest muscle you can hire without a corporate sponsor. And fiercely loyal. She’s not gonna enjoy watching him get murdered. But she watches.

* * *

`162 145 161 072 040 104 104 055 141 `

* * *

Burger does not, as it turns out, get murdered. As far as she can tell. 

A minute’s passed. Two, even. Enough time that Dasha's dizzy, when she remembers to take a breath. 

The connection’s not been cut. There’s no movement.

The little maniac doesn’t merc him, doesn’t talk to her, doesn’t run off, doesn’t do anything at all. Fuck. What is he—maybe he’s waiting for someone?

Maybe he’s trying to do it quietly?

She lifts the agent to her ear, cranks the volume. Burger is breathing. It's hard to tell, with the scattered rush of the rain letting up, but it’s there, deep and slow. There’s still no _movement_. No threats, no dropped signal, no violent jolts of dragging bodies, no black screen.

Dasha fiddles with the settings, changes the useless picture to infrared. The range is longer, and she can at least see that they're both still there. Two lumps of livid red. Burger, the big one, and Vang0 small. Unmoved from where they’d been.

Eventually the rain slows enough that she can hear sniffling.

What. The fuck. Is going on.

* * *

`156 145 145 144 040 151 156 146 157 040 157 156 072 040 `

* * *

``

Dasha shouts herself hoarse, quite a few futile minutes of that, but Burger doesn't wake and Vang0 doesn't—doesn't do anything. Doesn’t get himself free. Doesn’t move, doesn’t talk, no matter how loud—

“I fucking _KNOW_ you can hear me, Vang0—” 

“—_what did you do?_—”

“—he’ll forgive you, you know that idiot will forgive you—”

“_PICK UP THE FUCKING CALL YOU MORON_—”

“—oh I’m gonna wring your stupid little neck.”

—he does nothing. And no one comes. No getaway driver, no partner in crime; no clever mastermind or government activator or friend or enemy of Burger’s or hers or, god forbid, his own. 

He just sits, and probably hugs his knees, judging by the infra, and does nothing at all.

Dasha leaves the screen up. So she can watch it, as she flips through her rolodex and drinks some mint and honey and hot water. Well, shit. Who does she know out there in the boonies. Who can she call to go sort this out, who’s not gonna end up also unconscious on some abandoned big-mart roof. Who’s trustworthy and clever and agile enough, and who is she willing to owe a favor to. That last one shortens the list most of all.

She considers, and scrolls, and bends her ear to hear Burger’s snoring and make sure the status is quo. At last she picks up a shadow of soft beeping, and her heart sticks a minute before her brain places the sound.

“Are you playing _TETRIS_?” she screeches, and _goddammit _Vang0 she _knows_ it’s loud enough for him to hear, because he pauses the game.

He doesn’t say anything, though. And when she starts cussing him out, he goes back to playing.

* * *

`163 157 166 066 064 055 061 065 066 055 160 141 162 141 063  
`

* * *

After a wasted half-hour wheedling a favor out of her closest local dirtbag, it turns out Dasha doesn't need them after all. Vee-Bee, that skinny little sleeper agent, resets enough to at least remember his ridiculous initials. He’s confused and of course fucking conveniently memoryless, but pliant. She’s able to bully him back into Keanu with Burger’s body in tow. Goddammit, she’s spent _hours_ on this, and now she’s gonna have to drive them all the way back, because there's no fucking _way _she's trusting this sparkly dipshit—

(Keanu, being an absolute fuck, throws out a midi chuckle at "dipshit": _FORSOOTH MILADY THOU ART PICKING UP SIR BURGER'S AFFECTATIONS_ —she shuts him off in a huff)

trusting this sparkly _dick-for-brains _with the keys. Ugh. She hates driving. Hates it more remote—how the wretched automatic dullness of it isn't even mitigated by the sensation of the autopilot tugging at your fingers. That’s something at least, fighting it, feeling the stutter-shudder-click of it assessing your inputs and recalculating, perturbed from its proscribed course.

Dasha drove a real car once. Now _that_ was something. Fucking terrifying. It just _goes_, anywhere you put it, fast as you please.

No, she’s not talking about some roadsafe one that’s been _stripped_. Look, she lives in the city, okay? Her own ride has a strip-job and sensor-beater hacks and all the mods that any self-respecting hooligan pays out the nose for. But like, it's not the same. Dasha's ex was in the leadfoot racing scene and loved anything old and ugly and running on oil. Stuff with stick shifts. Stuff that barely had wires at all. When you drive one of those—

well, it’s really something. You can do anything in a car like that. Smash head-on. Barricade off a police car. Do 140 down the coast. Thelloueze it right off a cliff.

Anyway.

The driving is boring as sin. Vang0 seems normal, in his usual unsettling abnormality. Strange cadence and shifting eyes, unnervous about things that should really make him flinch, yup, that's him. He gulps air from the effort of dragging Burger, but gets it done. Then curls up like a kitten and thanks her— that’s a new one— and happily relinquishes any power he has over his own fate like this is how he meant it to come out all along.

For fuck's sake. They’re so peaceful, those two idiots napping in the back. She wonders if they’d even notice, if she floored it hard, really opened her up. Keanu can _move_, she knows that.

While these two do nothing and think about nothing and wouldn't remember it if they thought about it anyway, Dasha can't afford the privilege to herself. No, her brain is shiver-strike-sparking, tense with unease and trying to get some kind of explanation to catch light. There’s something _very wrong_ with Vang0, and not in a cute druggie way. 

It's not the memories. Well yes, in a way it _is_ the memories, more specifically the absence thereof, which is of course an annoying point in the constellation of this problem. But Vang0’s got more than a past-tense problem. He’s got a _present_-tense problem, which Burger’d explained oh-so-eloquently as “He just, uh, glitches out sometimes, ya know?”

Dasha _didn’t_ know, until she saw. Saw this.

Some back-alley augs will fuck up your whole-ass operating system, but like _this? _And more suspiciously, his mods look _good_. Startlingly high-class, despite his down-and-dirty appetites. He should be whacked-out stupid, with how many drugs he's used to wipe his RAM even in their short acquaintance—and yet he’s a freaky little _genius_ when he needs to be. A rogue ‘runner with not so much as a USB stick to his name. Something is _wrong_.

And whatever it is, it’s dangerous. Not only for him.

There's a story behind this. And money. Dasha wants to put her finger on both of them.

* * *

`141 156 171 040 151 156 146 157`

* * *

It is bizarrely easy to convince them to come to hers. It’s probably because she has an actual _shower_, as opposed to a bucket and a ratty towel stuffed in the corner of a van.

But still, she's surprised how swiftly Burger assents, once he wakes up. Clearly, the two of them want to crawl all over each other and probably would like to do it best away from Dasha's excoriating glare. Sensing an imminent handsy reunion, she rushes him through a few questions—tranq’ed, he confirms, but the hangover "ain't dat bad" apparently—informs them primly that she _will _be monitoring their movement and she _will _come get them if they deviate a jot, and turns off the audiovisuals as quick as she can. 

Burger loves that little freak, it’s clear. That’s so very Burger’s style. He gets attached. He’s been fucking Vang0 for a few months now, and it’s just not in his nature, to be that close to something and _not_ stare at it with big soft-eyed unbridled affection.

Vang0 is...alarming, but he's attached, too. Which makes good sense. Burger’s the only person in the whole world who owes Vang0 a favor. He’d be an idiot not to stay around, milk that for all its worth. And Vang0’s no idiot, except when he goes still and confused and does things that Dasha, despite an entire _career_ of extremely varied experience, cannot predict.

Hopefully they’re driving safe. Shit. Maybe she should—

well, shit. For all she knows Vang0’s run Keanu off the road by now. But what—

ugh, how fucking _awful_ would it be if she called when Chainz was balls-deep in Vang0’s ass—

or while they’re fighting out the drama of Vang0’s unruly departure—

or god, while they’re having _deep emotional conversations_ about how much they care about each other. No. Fucking. Way.

Instead Dasha pins the gps-tracker to her screen pointedly and resolves not to stare at it while she gives Tap a call.

* * *

`` `157 162 040 157 166 145 162 162 151 144 145 163`

* * *

Vang0 looks a little tidier in person, like maybe Burger cleaned him up in the car—he's approximately at _"drowned rat" _and no longer _"glittery combat casualty'_. Of course, he’s still twitchy and flippant, stuttering out thoughts that are half question, half accusation.

“...so I heard you caught my stream?” he grins, a nervous wink.

Dasha snorts. “Next time you’re trying to hide from me, maybe don’t broadcast your coordinates out to the whole quadrant,” she says drily, which just makes him smile wider.

“Swear I’ll never go missing again, if you like and subscribe.”

Ha! As if she hadn't already subscribed to his dumb ass. For the next time he causes some absolute chaos, and disappears, and leaves behind nothing but a sad-eyed Burger and the metadata for his premium content.

The two take over her bathroom, commandeer her stores of soap and tape and gauze, but she doesn't let them take too long. They have places to _be_, she insists, and that place is on time for their meeting with Tap, who's going to give Vang0 a checkup and then Vang0 is going to be polite and thank him for it. 

Vee digs his heels, about it, which is cute, because Dasha's not going to accept a no on this one. 

“Nuh-uh. I don’t—” a blink “I don’t think I have health insurance.”

“Very funny. Now move. It'll take twenty-five to get there, so we're already almost late.”

“But I’m _tired_.”

“Suck it up. You’re going. Or else I'm kicking you on the street.”

“Burger, can we leave.”

She grabs his shoulder, before he turns. “No. You can't stay with Burger either. I won't let you. Until you see Tap.”

Vang0 turns to Burger, face screwed up in something like a sulk, but he's got no cool at all and she watches it, watches his expression fall straight from _are you gonna take that from her? _to _oh shit you definitely are gonna take that from her, aren't you. _

Dasha doesn't bother sounding mean, because she's going to win this one. “It won't take long. I just need to know. Something in your wiring’s crossed and he— well, he probably can’t _fix_ it, but at least he knows how to give it a scan.”

Vang0’s face goes careful. Just like before, when the conversation bent this way. He doesn’t twist quite so hard this time, though. “What’s he gonna scan for.”

“Ya know, Vang0,” Burger says. He’s trying. He’s got his hand on the small of Vang0’s back, and Dasha didn’t even know his voice could sound so gentle. “Just what augs ya got ‘n where ‘n if anything’s gone hanky with the power supplies, yeah?”

“I don’t need that. I’m fine.”

Burger’s going to say something kind, probably, but Dasha spoils it by barking out a laugh, loud and ugly and as rude as he deserves.

“You are the _complete opposite_ of fine. I’m not even sure you could pass a Turing test right now. And there is no way I want to go hunting for your ass _next_ month, when you're torn up _worse _and still can't explain a thing about how you got that way.”

“I’m fine,” Vang0 repeats. He’s not fucking listening. He’s such a—

“Please, let him look atcha, yeah? It’d make me feel better. To patch you up a lil bit.”

A second of load time, and then it compiles.

“...yeah.” Vang0 consents. The syllable is strangely clipped, foreign in his voice. “Okay. fine. If he’s fast. Sure. Fine.”

Dasha doesn’t wait around for him to drop the attitude; just slides past them to the door and leads them out. 

* * *

`` `066 060 060 060 040 143 162 145 144 151 164 163 040 155 151 156`

* * *

The lab isn’t Tap’s, but it’s a lab Tap has a key to, which is essentially the same thing—he worked there, knows the layout, where the security turrets point, _et cetera_. He leads them confidently; wheels himself right up to the door bold as brass and scans his level 4 clearance (forged or stolen, she didn't ask) and they're in.

Things go smoothly for approximately ten minutes, which is pretty good when you’re working with Vang0. Vee-Bee freezes when Tap asks him to strip off his metal jewelry.

“No. Stays on.”

“Shuffle your fucking priorities,” Dasha bares her teeth in frustration. She'd manage a fiercer glare if she weren't also slipping off her earrings and popping them in a bright yellow plastic tub. “There’s no one to impress here.”

He scowls at her, but he's going to cave. He's _here_, isn't he? He almost has to.

“Do I have to—_all_ metal? Outside and...and in?”

Tap nods apologetically, and holds out the tub. “Yeah, sorry. It’ll mess things up something awful if you’ve got a ton of metal rattling around. Microdeposits are okay but, um, not like a necklace.”

“What about your jaw?” Vang0 turns, barks out.

“Oh, I’m not goin’ in,” Burger shrugs. “Better ta keep my old tin-head out here.”

“What. That doesn’t make sense.”

“The science don't make a lick o' sense ta me either, Vang0, but I think the magnets—”

“I _know_ how fucking _magnets_ work.” Well heavens, he sounds nearly as frustrated as Dasha feels; it's almost cathartic. “Tap has metal augs. So does Dasha. Inside. That you can’t take out. Why can’t you come in.”

“Mine aren’t like yours,” Burger says patiently, smiles rough and sheepish. “Mine’re cheap. More metal, I s'pose? I don’t pretend I understand it. Dasha’s got the good stuff, ya know.”

“What about Tap’s chair,” Vee-Bee turns to point. “That’s metal.”

“Nope,” Tap shakes his head, touches the shiny fake-chrome. “Carbon fiber. Like Dasha’s claws.”

Vang0 spins back, all the energy of a cornered rat. “Can’t you take if off? Your jaw?”

“Oh, I can, shore, but it’s a whole thing. Takes nearly an hour ta get the screws right. Better if I just go make myself scarce for a minute. I’ll be right outside, Vang.”

A stricken look. “What if there’s metal in _me_?”

“It’s okay,” Tap assures. “It’s not gonna like, hurt or anything. It just throws off the readings, if it’s magnetic. And that’d suck like, big time, but if that’s how it is at least we’ll know.”

There’s a couple beats of panicky thinking. Vee-Bee's _really _kicking at all this, at coming here, at doing it...but he _is _doing it. Which is a relief because if he turned tail and bolted Dasha'd have to put a beam taser right between his shoulderblades, and gosh, wouldn't that just be such a shame.

“Fine,” Vang0 grunts at last, and strips his necklace off with trembling fingers. That's a hand-me-down from Dasha, as are the uneven earring-loops that he, horrifyingly, he had Burger pierce for him _in her own kitchen and without asking first_. Vee’s picked up some rings on his own, though, from who-knows-where. A stud in his belly-button which, god, she hopes he got done somewhere, at least Eclaire's. He yanks his agent and the stream rig off his wrist; dumps out a handful of junk from his pockets (where he keeps pockets in those shorts, Dasha couldn't guess.

The pile of cheapy fake-gold and refurb chips gets handed off to Burger, then he raises a hand to indicate _wait_: an open-palm gesture that's sharp and rude and if he tried it on _her_, well, there'd be some words about it. But Burger doesn't mind a hand in his face, it seems, and waits patiently while Vee pats himself down twice for anything else.

Ahhh, _there _it is. The good shit. Vang0 opens up a sneaky little compartment in his leg and yanks out: a multitool; something sharp; a few syringes; and some actual coins (god what a weirdo). Those pile into Burger's overlarge hands as well—shit, it really looks like he’s giving up his firstborn—but he _does_ it, and he doesn’t whine.

Dasha feels a little sorry for him, as Burger waves goodbye and heads out the door with every single one of Vee's earthly possessions, while he just stares down at his shoes. Really, they're not even _his _shoes, they're Dasha’s worn out white kicks from high school. Scuffy-worn, but she’s not wasting any more nice clothes on Vang0. Look, okay she feels _sorry_ for him, but that’s just throwing good money after bad.

* * *

`145 156 144 040 155 145 163 163 141 147 145 015 012 `

* * *

``

Vang0 bickers every step of the way, once Burger’s gone, which to be fair he was doing before as well but this is far more fast-paced. He doesn't want to take off his shirt. Then the gel is too cold. Then he can't sit still, with the leads hooked up to his chest. Trails them around, a train of sloppy tangled wires, as he inspects each of the machines with an intimacy that makes Tap wince.

“Please don’t touch tha— okay now I have to recalibrate it— can you just um, please _wait_ a quick...please?”

To his credit, Vee-Bee does (probably) try. Perches himself on a seat for fifteen seconds before he gets some wild idea and pops up again. Dasha pushes him down. He goes.

“Can I play Tetris.”

“No. Sit. Talk to me. Tell me—tell me what augs you think you’ve got. We’ll start there.”

She doesn’t need this info and neither does Tap, but at least it gives Vang0 something to do. He rattles them off, wring his hands with nervous remembering-energy. He's got a pretty full loadout; must have upped his voltage at some point to run all that at once. Compartment in his leg, old and new adapters, some kinda tooth that extends his range. He’s got a fancy hot-pink fingernail that scans for chemical composition and a rod implanted for bone conduction and a full deluxe kit in his downstairs. That is, frankly, more than Dasha ever tries to know about anyone—

but well, Vang0 doesn’t have great boundaries, and he just goes on and on, and she lets him, because at least he's not _moving_.

(Ew. Apparently, he’s got a joystick mod down there. Some kind of promotional item from a Brock Autoerotic Manufacturing conference. He’s not sure, he says, if he’s the kind of person who would attend such a conference, or just the kind of person who would have bought a used one on ebay because having his junk say BAM would have struck him funny.)

That would make Dasha laugh, if he didn’t deliver it in such a serious, peculiar way. He really doesn’t know. Fuck.)

Then he has to lie back and stop talking, for the nMRI. For like fifteen minutes, Tap says apologetically, he has to shut up and sit still. Dasha steps away so they can get this moving, but as soon as—

an expression ricochets across his face—

something like fear, she’s not sure. Horror, maybe. That she’s gonna go; leave him alone and near-naked, with all his augs turned off, alone. It’s annoying, seeing him look like that. But he has to do it. _Must_, he must. They have to figure out what the fuck is wrong with his head, what’s making him—

“Please!” he screeches. Dasha snaps her head up just in time to see Tap get punched—a sharp strange little crack of Vee's knuckles into his own, fist-on-fist. He swears, draws back.

“Sorry! Sorry but like—okay dude, _trust me_, you’re gonna want the earplugs, this thing is _loud_ from the inside.”

“No.”

“Your ears’re gonna ring after for like hours. It’ll fuck up your hearing. You can put them in yourself? Just like, please—”

“No.”

Ugh. Vang0 is _never_ not stubborn. Even when declawed. Dasha weighs her options. She could snap at him to shut the fuck up and put his earplugs on or else she's out of here; he might be cowed enough by that. She could just let him go deaf—Tap won’t push it further, she doesn’t think—and it's his own problem, if he can't hear for the next three days and gets hit by a self-driving cop. Maybe if she leans in and drawls that _Burger'll be so annoyed with you if you don't _he'll get that blank inscrutable look he gets and obey, for his own mysterious reasons. 

That _could _make him puff up like a terrified cat; arch his spine and wiggle backwards out of this machine and maybe even make a run for it. She wouldn't put it past him. 

Dasha sighs and elects to exercise benevolence. Vee's head is sticking out of the tube machine, and he’s not stopped fidgeting for even a moment. “I can stand here, right Tap?” she says, rests a hand in his rat’s-nest hair. He loosens at her touch. She pets him.

“Mmm,” Tap ponders a long moment, then drops the earplugs into her hand. “Yeah. You're good. I can work around it.”

Dasha drops the earplugs (no _way _he's gonna go for that) but settles the earmuffs carefully over Vang0's ears; keeps her fingers on the crown of his head.

He closes his eyes and breathes. It’s strange, that someone can look so flat just from being scared. It’s like he’s turned something off. Or had it turned off, in him.

He’s not totally fidgetless, for all fifteen minutes. But _god_, he tries. As soon as he’s allowed, he’s up and out, doesn't pause to put on more clothes on or get the leads off. Nope, he’s trailing gel and wires, up in Dasha’s face, pushing past her to stare at the monitors without so much as a _thank you ma’am for your generous help_.

“What’d you find.”

“Hard to— hey! Okay okay, look there: that’s a list of the big stuff. Looks like mostly what you said. I’m trying to find any nano, though, so let me fiddle with the contrasts.”

Vee traces the printout with his finger, line-by-line. “What’s this one? The pacemaker?”

“That’s for your heart,” Dasha cuts, and Vang0 fixes her with a glare.

“I know _that_. I’m not stupid. I just—” He freezes, blinks. “Thought that was for old people.”

“Could be you had a bad heart,” Tap says absently, while he’s setting variables and watching the screen. “Could be you got in an accident and got resuscitated. Or you're rich and you wanted some _really_ expensive insurance, in case ya got zapped on the job. Could be a lot of things.”

Vang0 doesn't wait too long to absorb this, just nods blankly and looks back down. “What’s this one? It’s just numbers. Six four oh— ”

“That’s—oh. Yeah. That’s not commercial.”

“Industrial? Or blackmarket.”

“Uh, kinda both? Neo-soviet. I've never,” Tap pauses, glances at Dasha. “Never seen one of those in the wild before.”

“Okay.” Vee's staring at the numbers, maybe memorizing them. He doesn't ask what it does, which is _annoying_, because Dasha would like to know. But she sure as hell isn't gonna ask in front of him.“And this one? Cosmetic?”

“Yeah. It might have been jailbroken, though. You can get a lot of different functionalities off that. I saw someone once who hacked it to light cigarettes by snapping.”

Vang0 gives a thoughtful look, then abandons the list to crowd up close to Tap, and all the dials and lights he's trying to balance, searching for nanotech in Vang0's blood.

“Hey! hey easy—look, just gimme a second; I promise I'll give you the printout, okay? It’s really annoying to reset all the confidence intervals.”

“Okay.” Vee nods, and steps a half-step back, because he _has _to, in order to get something he wants. Unfortunately that means his attention shifts back to Dasha, and any healthy walls she's built up between them have been smashed by her trying to calm his jumpy ass down.

“Do you think i’m rich,” Vang0 asks her, up way too close and eyes wide.

“Looks like it,” she shrugs. “This is some pricey tech. Most of it’s vanity. You definitely had some cash to burn.”

“Me or someone,” he mutters. “Can you tell when this stuff got put in? Not all at once?”

Tap makes an uncertain noise. “I don’t think so. you might need a real doctor to know that.”

“Hmph.” Vee's got Dasha’s hand in his, somehow, examining the marks where her claws retract. She doesn't like his fingers ghosting over them, even though it doesn’t hurt, but she lets him. “I don’t have anything defensive. Or offensive. Maybe I'm just a rich kid who likes to look pretty.”

“You can shoot,” Dasha points out, because he can, she’s seen him do it. Just once, at the range, with Burger, but no one has an eye like that, without practice or a million credits.

“True. Hey, do you think I ran away? Or was ransomed.”

“You're not _ransomed_," Dasha scoffs. “You're no one. Trust me, if there was a ransom out for you I'd know—gah! What the _hell _are you doing?”

His scrawny body is crawling into her lap, straddling her hips. If she let him, he'd settle there with his arms around her neck like a toddler. Or like a hooker, hard to tell.

He flinches when she barks at him, shakes his head, flat expression unsure as if he doesn't quite know what he's getting scolded for. "What?"

“Get _off _me,” she shoves. Something about him makes her skin crawl; the uncertainty, maybe. How fucking helpless he is. Even though he's smart. Smart, moves fast, skills with a gun or an FTP. And yet completely useless.

“Sorry,” he hums, wraps his arms around himself like it costs him cycles to remember not to touch her. Ugh. Touchy-feely people are so...so...and he's worse because he makes her feel _guilty_. “Don't know what I'm doing.”

That's a little broken, that; not welling with tears but shading into kinda dissociated, in that way he does. He doesn't keep much held back, this Vang0, and half the time it seems he's running on autopilot, sense memories of his body carrying him through. No wonder Dasha can't figure out his hugs. He probably doesn't know what they mean, himself.

“I bet you were always a hugger,” she scoffs; makes it sound stern. “But mama don't do that. Go tell Burger we're done; you can cling to him all your little modded heart desires.”

That eases the tension in his body, the terrible way it lists both toward and away from her, seems like it's tearing apart. “Yeah,” is all he says in response, before his pale-eyed stairing cuts off abrupt and he scampers, still half-unclothed, trailing cords, away.

“Oh god, don’t—!” Tap shouts, just as the door slams on the wires and lands him in a wince. “Ah, dammit.”

``

* * *

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* * *

The results are...interesting. Not interesting enough that Dasha is enthused about the prospect of watching Vang0 climb Burger like a tree, but enough that she'll tolerate it. And also, that she'll let him stay in her house.

_A - No; B - No; C - Maybe_ reads the little paper Tap pressed into her hand, and she trusts him enough to believe that he's got nothing Manchurian enough to cause her immediate personal trouble. C, though, C is of interest...there's a mystery hanging over this ridiculous caricature named Vang0 Bang0, and Dasha's got the bug for it. It helps a bit, that there's money in him. His money, or someone else's, Dasha can't possibly say. But she bets that if she can track it down there'll be something there; a hefty payout—hush money, ransom, a princely reward—she can smell it.

And yes, perhaps there's something else there, too. Maybe she’s just bored.

The boys come back to hers easily, to stay the night. Possibly they'd rather not, would rather get somewhere alone to “check each other over” or whatever thin excuse they can muster, but they're also exhausted. Burger's feeling the ache of tranquilizers in his bones, by now, and Vang0's eyes are bright but the circles under them are dark and sharp. She can almost _hear _him thinking, loud as a dial-up modem, about the printout in his pocket; as easy as she can hear the static between Burger's ears. Dasha would never admit it, but she finds it cute, how Vang0 climbs into Burger’s lap on the couch. How Burger lets him. Big tough guy, little fey companion, very classic. These two could run a two-man game if they had any sense between them. But they don’t.

Vang0 goes live while he’s in the shower (she sends him back in twice: once for “no, that was two minutes, I want you clean” and once for “did you even use soap!”). He grouches about it to his followers, her standards. She almost smacks him for using her name on-stream, then stops. Recalibrates. Maybe it’s not precisely _bad_ if her association with this storyless weirdo gets out in the public eye a little. Maybe something useful will find its way to her.

“I am ‘very’ clean,” Vee stomps in and he’s not half-assing it this time—she can tell that he’s actually tried to brush his ratty hair, because he's broken off the bristles of her very best comb, oh my _god. _

“Is there anything you can’t break,” she bites out, scathing—

“_Dasha_,” Burger frowns, warning, protective, but Vang0 cuts in faster with a weird little cockeyed grin.

“Nope. I'm basically professional at breaking stuff. And fixing stuff. I fixed your hot water. How do you even live with it throttled like that.”

It takes a moment, for her to parse this shift of topic.“Oh my—you _didn't_.”

He stills, goes serious. “Yeah I did. I can, um. Change it back. I just wanted it hotter.”

“You...you—what did you _do_? I had a hacker in here for _ages—_” It's hard to stutter out an explanation, with visions of long hot lovely lilac-scented baths, swimming languorously in her head. Maybe she won't have to move _after _all, and oh that's just wonderful because she loves the view—

“I took out the temperature and the time controls,” he stares at the ground as he reports, in monotone. “So um you could. Burn yourself. Be careful. If you want me to put it back. I can.”

_“No!_ Nonono, no, Vang0, you did wonderful. That's wonderful. I'm so grateful. _Thank _you. Really.”

He grins, lights up from chin to crown in sunny smiles, and even winks, the turd. “Yeah? Good. Check the VOD if you wanna see how I did it. Or see how to change it back. They'll probably delete it in a day or to though, so like, just comment if you need me to--”

She waves a hand. “I'll call you, Vee, if I need it fixed. That's what I do to Burger.”

“She pays in pizza,” Burger affirms, “when I fix things for her. Fixin' things for a fixer, I figure that's somethin' for the resume.”

“I think I like pizza?” Vang0 quirks his head to Burger, like he's asking; for permission or confirmation, Dasha isn't sure.

“Let's find out, baby boy!” Dasha declares, and whips out her agent to order in unbridled delight.

* * *

`120 145 154 154 145 156 164 145 163 161 165 145 040 164 162 1511`

* * *

It turns out that Vang0 Bang0 hates beer but likes pizza, although he eats it in a way Dasha finds absolutely abhorrent.

“You don’t eat the _crusts_, Vee,” she chides him, as he tears through another slice ravenously. “That’s _trash_. That’s for dogs and poor people.”

“Just let him,” Burger shrugs; but he's not worth listening to—he also eats the crusts, and calls them ‘pizza bones,’ like an idiot child. But she expects that kind of thing from a farm hick like Burger, who needs hours of assistance to look half-civilized if god forbid a job takes him downtown. It's just...jarring to see such ravenous eating out of a sharp-shiny socialite like Vang0; someone who looks like he costs money. It jars her, but she doesn't press. Vee's had enough, today. Burger has too, it seems, because he falls asleep on the couch literally mid-eating, succumbs to his hangover, perhaps, or to the beer, or just his days of exhausted searching. 

Meanwhile, Dasha gets her detangler and takes pity on Vang0; calls him over. “Sit—no. On the floor,” she directs, and he goes easily, positions himself between her legs entirely cheerful. She tsks and turns him around. “I'm going to fix that hair of yours.” He makes no response to that, just lets her spritz down his scalp and work it in, first with her palms, then fingers, then a wide-toothed comb.

“You like it straight like this, right?” she asks, and has to ask twice again before he answers.

“I think so?”

“For the love of server stop saying pathetic things like _that. _Just say _yes _or say _no_ and if you're not sure, choose at random like the rest of us.”

“Okay,” he takes the direction easily. “Yes.”

“Good,” she affirms, and pets him. “I need some silicone. Give me a second. It's a crime, whoever did this to you--bleached it this hard and didn't treat it.”

Vang0 snorts like that's funny. “When I find them I'll turn them in to you.”

“Please do.” She sections off his hair, starting at the crown. It's unnecessary, all that fuss, but she'd like not to miss any bits, so she never has to look at this frizzy disaster again. “You don't remember when you got it done?”

“No. But to be fair. I don't remember _anything_._”_

“What about _way _back? Like, when you were small? Have any fun birthday parties?”

“No.” His answer is instant. “Or maybe. I don't know.”

“I told you, _try_,” she tugs. “Try to act normal. Make it up. What was your best ever birthday present.”

He goes quiet for so long that Dasha isn't sure if he's fabricating, or genuinely trying to remember, or ignoring her altogether. “I was seven,” he spits out, in that short-strange way he does. “There were streamers. Purple. I wanted a cake with chocolate chips.”

“Fancy,” she comments. “Did your parents splurge for real ones? Or just synth.”

“I was little. I don't think I could tell.” She scoffs; he pulls. “I don't think I could tell _now_.”

“Unrefined palate. Can't even tell real chocolate from fake.”

“You know a _lot _of it's counterfeit,” he snarks. “How do you even know that you've _had _real chocolate? I bet you haven't.”

“I know. I had some pretty fancy suitors. They brought me the good stuff.”

“They probably lied.”

“Nope. It was real. With milk, and everything.”

“Bullshit. They probably sent you trash.”

“Lick my ass.”

“They say the fake stuff tastes better, anyway.”

_“Who_ says?”

He pouts; she can hear it. “...I dunno.”

She taps his head. “Just say ‘everyone knows it,’ sweetie; that’s what dumbshits like you always say in arguments.”

“Everyone knows it,” he echoes without vitriol, and settles back a little more easily between her knees.

* * *

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* * *

Vee has more reason to be tired than Dasha does, but still it's her that rises first. 

_“_I'm going to bed,” she declares. He staggers up too, follows a step after her, uncertain. 

_“_Should I...come?”

She blinks, a little surprised by his boldness. But she should know that Vee's bold, by now. _“_You can, if you like. It's a big bed.”

She'd die before she'd admit that the nights Burger sleeps in her bed, she feels safer. Even though it's just a _favor_, ostensibly, a way to pay-him-without-paying, an excuse not to activate the dusty old pullout or wake him up with a couch-shaped crook in his neck. Even when he can't fix her problems. Or when--as in this case--it's more _her _fixing a problem for _him. _She still lets him crawl beside her after a good long shower and get a proper sleep, and they don't talk about payment or reasons, and it's just nice. Having the big lug at hand, sweet-faced and violent and unshakingly loyal.

Vang0 trills in happiness when he sees her bed, slips under her silk sheets with an expression of hedonistic bliss “What do you want. Oh my god I will do _anything_ if you let me sleep here. Dyou wanna peg me, or...?”

_“What?_” she says, more of an undignified squawk than she'd like to admit.

He stares at her again, cocks his head. He looks confused. He _always _looks confused. _“_I could...eat you out?”

_“_No! No I--” she hopes her face isn't too obviously disgusted. _“_No. I don't. Do that. No offense; you're cute and all. I just don't do that. I don't fuck.”

His brow furrows; thinking, resolving something. “You mean you don't have sex,” he says, a question that sounds like a statement.

_“_Yes correct,” she coughs. _“_Not interested. In you or anyone.”

_“_...so should I...leave?”

This, at least, is more familiar. _“_If you want,” she shrugs. _“_You're fine in here. Sleeping with me is fine. Burger does it all the time; crashes here when he's done me a favor.”

The little empty-headed freak blinks at her like _she's _the weird one. But he doesn't ask her any questions, and she doesn't tell him any lies. 

_“_So I can sleep here.”

_“_Yes, if you be _quiet_.”

_“_And Burger sleeps here, sometimes.”

_“_That's what I said.”

_“_Will he be mad, that we left him on the couch?”

She rolls her eyes. _“_What's it matter.”

He doesn't say anything to that, doesn't elucidate why it matters to him. Whatever. It won't exactly be cramped; her bed is quite expansive.

“Fine. You can go get him if you want, you dingaling.”

He skitters off as quick as he came in, in socks and a t-shirt that aren't his own, smelling of her soap and her detangler, and she finds she doesn't even mind. Fuck. Has _she _gotten attached? 

Dasha rubs her face and turns out the light, before the two meatheads stumble in here and she has to look at them. Maybe she's attached. God help her. 

* * *

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* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3 there will be more once I figure out how to unspool this mystery


End file.
